The Nameless Ones
by RiaKitsuneYoukai
Summary: The stories of the Avatar mothers, most nameless, who brought our beloved characters to life.
1. Air

_Hush now, my baby  
Be still, love, don't cry  
Sleep like you're rocked by a stream  
Sleep, and remember my last lullaby  
So I'll be with you when you dream_

_----_

She knows before the birthing what he will be. A mother's ability, perhaps, but she knows. She has seen him in dreams -- a small-boned body with the world on his back. Black hair, like his father, and moon-gray eyes, like hers. He has the blue arrow of the airbenders, and so she is afraid for him; he will have those markings cut into his skin row by row, will bleed, with nothing to dull the pain. But more so, she will lose him. The monks will take him from her as soon as he can walk, and she will not see him until he is an adult -- but such is the way of the Air Nomads. And she knows she cannot be selfish and keep her boy away from them, away from the world. Because he is not only an airbender -- if he were, she would have his father teach him -- he is the Avatar.

She sits alone at night, waking from a dream of an old man in red bowing to her, and rubs her swollen stomach. She cries out loud for herself, and for her child, and for the world. Because he's just one person. Unborn, and already the earth is calling for him to resume his duties. She cries until her tears no longer come, and then she just chokes, pulling her knees in as far as they will go and holding her stomach with her arms, to keep her child to herself, just for now. If he must leave her, to become strong, to protect the world, then at least she will have him for now.

When she goes into labor, the pain is almost invisible. She knows he will have to endure worse. With every contraction she can almost hear the unborn child apologising, not meaning to hurt her but knowing no other way out. She clutches her stomach and pushes -- the child is born within the hour, and she almost begins crying again: _I have birthed a god._

She knows that the other nomads are curious of her reactions to the baby boy; she is never away from him, and any chance she has he is in her arms, close to her heart. The child holds her neck softly, but with a strong grip, and leans into her shoulder. He enjoys the closeness, and she knows he needs it; eventually he will be with only males, and as they are not blood to him they will likely not show him the affection he will want so badly. The nomads, her friends, tell her to let him down, that he will only become weak that way, and will not learn to walk. She smiles brokenly and clutches her child closer; the longer he goes without walking, the longer they can stay together, and as she says to all of them: _he will have to be too strong when he is older -- for now, let him be weak. He needs to be weak_.

He walks, and she falls to her knees crying, her arms outstretched to him; the little boy stumbles into her, giggling, and she brushes back his hair, wiping the tears from where they have fallen. She is both amazingly proud of her son, and mad -- not at him, but at his walking, that he couldn't have waited longer to take his first steps. She clutches his little squirming body close to her and kisses his head, telling him that she is proud, that she loves him more than anything. And she cries.

They come on one very large sky bison, and the billowing wind makes her child laugh. She holds him close, against her hip, and pushes his flyaway hair down, kissing his head yet again. The little Avatar reaches a small hand to her cheek and kisses her back -- his mother chuckles and chokes at once, rubbing her nose against her little one's. The monks step down, their robes long and colorful, standing in a perfect triangle. One man, who is only her height, steps forth and bows to her, his eyes on the ground out of deep respect. When he stands she sees his eyes, and they are kind; he smiles at her child, and at her. He speaks to her and she nods dumbly, until he gestures towards the bison. She takes a sharp breath and bites her lip against the tears; she looks at her little one, kisses him again, and with her forehead against his, sings a lullaby she makes up on the spot. The old monk is patient, unlike those behind him, and smiles sadly for them both. She sings softly but proudly, and in the lyrics tells her baby to be strong, to find her again some day. She tells him that she will always watch him, and that she hopes the best for him; she wants him to live life fully, no matter what expectations are put on him, and she prays that he'll find someone to love him as much as she does. Her child listens intently to every word.

She passes her baby boy to the kind monk, who holds him carefully, whispering a cheerful hello. Her arms wrap tight around herself, her nails biting her palms, and she tries not to cry as the monk, after a soft pat on her shoulder, climbs onto the sky bison, her child in his arms. The bison takes a great lurch skyward, and the monk suddenly turns towards her and asks what her little boy's name is. She has to yell over the wind (it's more of a scream, edged with the sorrow that is creeping into her), but the word is clear: _Aang_.

Aang -- her lost little one, the world's savior, the bridge to the Spirit World -- _my gentle breeze_.


	2. Earth

_Hush now, baby, don't you cry  
Mother's going to make all your nightmares come true  
Mother's going to put all her fears into you  
Mother's going to keep you right here under her wing  
She won't let you fly, but she might let you sing_

_---- _

There is a fever spreading across town. Brought from the edges of the mountains, some say, an affliction pushed upon the people by the spirits as punishment for being so greedy. A dangerous ailment that makes citizens bedridden for days, weeks. And people are dying from it. She is afraid, for the first real time in her life; afraid of getting caught, being infected, because this is a virus that cannot be stopped by thick stone walls. And for the first time since she became pregnant, she knows: _I don't want to have this baby_.

Her husband is of little comfort. He loves her dearly, she knows, but he is lost in the feild of fatherhood, and so avoids coming home. He is a nervous man. But she is much more scared. The child she carries kicks her often, from inside, and she always feels like she is being punished: _why are you having me? Why are you trying to be a mother?_ She never cries at daytime, only endures the kicking, for she is afraid of showing her unborn child weakness; she wants to prove she is worthy of having child, though she does not believe it. Each day the pain in her back and stomach is worse, and she feels horrible, but she endures it all, because she wants to be strong, like the earth. Strong like the kingdom she is bringing this baby in to.

The fever reaches her fortress of stone, brought by the daughter of a nobleman. It is unintentional, but only adds to the feeling that she is being disiplined for being with child -- she cannot breathe, and is confined to her bed, where servents bring cool water for her brow and tea to soothe her insides; she becomes weaker, and the little one inside her still kicks. Finally, alone in her room, she whispers at her bloated stomach: _do you hate me this much?_ In retaliation, her water breaks, and the child begins forcing itself out of her.

Her labor lasts almost a full two days, and only then does she cry and scream the way she has wanted to for so long. She cries because she is birthing a child who does not want to be born, who wants to go on punishing her for letting it grow. But it is born, none the less. She is exausted by the end, and can only lay still in her bed, with fogged vision and mind and burning skin, listens to the midwives telling her husband that her baby is a girl, and that she is blind. From her place, without moving, she cries, and her pillow becomes wet beneith her head, staining her black hair with salt; _That's why you hate me. I made you sightless_.

She is afraid of holding the little girl; when she does, the child will not look at her, even when she calls, preferring to gaze towards the sky (the ceiling is there, but somehow the baby's intentions are clear). She does not hold the infant very close; she fears that it will kick and screech at her with it's tiny new lungs. But she marvels over the pink mass she has produced. Her child has pale skin, just as she, and is small in her bones. The wisps of hair on her head are a black ebony. Her feet are strangely big, and they curl and uncurl constantly, as though she is reaching for something. Her eyes are the color of faded jade, like the necklace Lord Bei Fong had proposed to her with, and she cries, because they will always be that way, and her little girl will never see.

She fears holding the baby to her, or singing to her, because her voice will not be right, and her arms will be too weak and she will drop the infant; she lets her servents take care of her child, but she watches closely, aching to keep the little one to herself. She rejects the baby, only because she doesn't want to hurt it. She does not want to hurt the infant girl with the name of a boy, who refuses shoes and longs for the outdoors so. She keeps the child inside the walls of their home; although it did not protect her from the fever, it would protect her baby from the outside world, where her blindness would make her vulnerable and where she would get hurt. She is most afraid of her baby girl being hurt. She wants to be a good mother.

Her girl is an earthbender, and so she is given the right of a teacher -- but she is afraid of her daughter harming herself with the flying rock, so she instructs the sifu to teach her only movements, nothing else. He follows these instructions well, and her girl learns to move with the earth. Suddenly she is no longer stumbling around their home, but stepping naturally, as though she can see every inch of it. She is curious, but makes no remark. Then, only months after her little girl turns twelve years of age, she is taken away -- by the Avatar, no less. Her mother cries, fretting and pacing, even after her husband sends men after her; she has let her daughter be taken from safety. She has let her child be hurt.

It is months after she has gone, and a Fire Nation hawk flies to their home, a letter posted to its back. Her husband runs to her, the empty, scared shell of her, and shows her the letter; it is from her daughter. The little blind girl she had birthed wrongly and lost to suspicious people. She cries and clutches the letter in her shaking hands; _written by a friend_, the note says. It was written by a friend of her little girl. And suddenly she realizes that she has denied her baby the ability to have friends. She feels the worse mother in existance.

But the letter says that her baby is happy, that she misses her mother and father. She sobs, wiping the tears from her eyes before they can hit the paper and curl it up; the last part of the note is directly for her, and was written by her daughter. She has to study the characters for long moments before she can read it, but she does:_ I am glad I was born. Thank you, mom._


	3. Water

_Hush now, baby, don't you cry  
Turn each teardrop into a smile  
Soon I'll be there by your side  
It's only time until I'm with you_

----

She considers herself lucky that her husband is around when she is with child. She knows of many other women in the tribe who have lost their husbands to the war raids; hers holds his ground and fights to protect his people. He is the chief; it is his duty. But still she admires the way he leads and guards and protects with his life. He never gives in. She tells him this, and he smiles and puts a hand to her stomach -- _our child will be that way, too._

He is right. From the moment of his birthing, in that horribly cold tent -- and she has to be so _exposed_ -- she realizes she will have to be strong for the birth to go well. The cold climate doesn't agree with most babies. The delivery women fuss and make small comments as she screams and shakes with the effort, but she decides that she will be strong like her husband. Like her child will be. And he is not only becoming strong, but persistant; the birth takes hours. Near the end, she is aware of the helpers around her telling her husband to leave the tent -- when had he come in? -- and giggles. Her son is born after her laugh.

She takes quick gasping breaths; her husband nearly smothers her in a hug when he dashes back into the room, kissing her forehead (she could swear his face is wet, but so is her forehead, so there's no way to be sure). She has to yell at him when he snatches the baby, only just wrapped in thick, white pelts, from a healer's arms, and he turns to her, grinning madly. Slowly, after a fond glance down into the mouth of the blanket, he brings over the newborn, and she chuckles again at the tiny tuft of hair on her baby's head. The child giggles back, just a quick, quiet noise, and after a small glance at his mother falls into slumber. She takes a moment to admire his features -- the dark hair, gorgeous blue eyes and chocolate skin -- and a suspicion that the boy will look just like his father occurs to her. She glances up at her husband and says: _name him after something peaceful._

Her daughter's birth is different.

Her second child is born on the winter solstice, the last day of sun, the beginning of the Night Season, during a particularly feirce battle with the invaders. She hates her timing -- just as her husband and she run from the comfort of the tent and into the dark frey, she has to be carried back in. Her husband holds all her weight with one arm, roaring like some animal as he swings a machete at advancing men. His closest friend stands by his side, loyal as ever, but balks at the sounds of his fury. She balks too; he has never been this frightening. Still, he is gentle as he lies her on the bed; he stands at the doorway, crouched and ready, his bloody weapon dripping on the pelt floor. There is no time to call for midwives; she screaches and pants and births her child alone.

Her husband collects the squealing baby from her and wraps in up in the closest blanket, pausing for a moment to watch something she cannot see -- she is too tired to notice the way her new child's flailing arms raise snow off the ground. Growling again as the sounds outside grow closer, he hands her the child; she holds her little one to her breast and panic hits -- where is her first? _Where is my son?_

But her husband is gone and back already, having collected her year-old boy from the battle. He had been trying to fight, like his father. Relieved, she clutches both to herself, and, too exausted to stand, covers them all in a blanket. She vaugely feels her husband kiss her head. Vaguely hears him say, _I love you_. Vaguely watches flashes of fire light up the outside of the tent. Among the blasts and screams of the war outside, she notices her firstborn coddle his new sister.

_Name her after a force_, she whispers, and he says, _Water_.


End file.
